


Hope and Ghosts

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: The Files [6]
Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They offered her hope, but it came from the hands of her most hated of ghosts.</p><p>The not dead type, that were supposed to be dead anyways, the type that had towers fall about them.</p><p>Still Stigma would not show mercy, not to even the most justified of hates, and it wasn't her that they offered hope to, but rather a child that was in her care.</p><p>A rock in a hard place, Tifa's been there, was there again, but then one secret come out, the "why" behind such seeming mercy left her reeling, and wondering....</p><p>And tempted, because it wasn't about her, not anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

FF7 fanfic; Ghosts

Intro: "Hope"

The invitation had come word of mouth and with such a dubious source taken into consideration she had taken a spoonful of salt to balance the blend. Holding fast to her skepticism, she held harder to hope and waited for the illness to pass. Yet every day she came to work more drawn, every day the rings under her eyes deepened. But a child's cry in the night couldn't be ignored. Patiently, though stamina waned as she pitted energy against the indomitable, she bathed his brow, smoothed back his hair, and held his hand to hold the nightmares at bay.

Ironic then, the first bruise had appeared where her hand had so gently closed over his. In a panic she'd taken him to the doctor. The medic was a long faced man who was short and portly. He had a placid manner that would have been comforting had the diagnosis not been so grim. Wordlessly he read the results of the tests to himself, then had ushered her out of the room. Denzel's dark eyes had followed them every step of the way, fear touching his face. He hadn't been scared, not while braving the aches and pains that never went away, not even when the bruises had appeared. Now, with her leaving, he was scared.

"Don't worry sweetie, we'll be right back." She had promised her smile as gentle and light as it could be. With a sigh he dropped his gaze to study the linoleum floor and idly kicking feet.

Considering her promise she put more speed into her exit so she could hurry her return.

It was there, in the dubious privacy of an empty hall that she'd uttered the expected question and he'd given a one word answer. At word's conclusion he'd gone to smoothing the front of his white coat.

"Geositgma?"

She'd tasted the alien word. And he'd looked at her, not bothering to repeat the nominative. His confirming nod was short, quick, and he raised a shaking hand to run it through the grey-blond hair that topped his head.

That was when she'd felt a tug, of something from her past. Shaking her head she resolutely ignored the past, focused on the present. Her long black hair flowed behind her at the motion, tickled her back, to that denial of what was the doctor's stoic face tuned grim as he enunciated each word, described each symptom, and killed all her hope with her words.

And even as he rattled off the lists of adjectives that spelled out one word –never speak it, never think it!- he did so with a distant distaste that the academically inclined hold for the ignorant.

"I'm sorry." He concluded lamely, rubbing his hands over the front of his coat, as if desperately trying to clean them of some invisible taint

It was the fear of the disease's man unknowns that became the center piece of her life. Resolutely refusing to re-enter the room with her, the doctor waited outside, and in her leaving she found that he hadn’t even done that. But in the large scheme of things he wasn’t important, what was was sitting on a table waiting to be taken home. She did so, never mind one nurse's fearful look, she lead and he followed, not noticing the veiled hostility and avoidance for she filled the talk with light chatter. He was confused, but comforted, and was patently tolerant of the soft "hush" she'd used to answer his question of "what's wrong?"

It was fear that shackled her to isolation. Distance became a must, the changing of bandages to stanch the increasing streams of black puss soon ceased to be a horror and turned into a chilling commonplace. He lost weight and grew paler, and her nights grew longer and longer. Plastic gloves replaced her fighting mitts, sanitizer became her perfume, and through it all she held her smile until it felt brittle.

Ghosts, she was once told, were phantoms of the mind, the wind catching the stones just right… She felt surrounded by them, bound by all sides. Even as she patiently dabbed at his hurts and regaled stories from the past she remembered. It was only the lighthearted ones she divulged, not even hinting at the dark tales for he was far too young for those… They all were, even the villains and heroes of the tale she had partaken in had been far too young by half… And she smiled while she spoke, her touch soothing his pain with the gentle promise that it would pass. Alone she labored, dabbed his sores as the scent brought back dark memories.

She recalled long black hair, a mad man's cackle and smile.

And the tale that had preceded the nightmare of disease, the one that was told word of mouth fell into the grey of forgotten memory. But as she was learning with the regaling of the old tales... ghosts were uneasy things. Especially those that still lived.

The reminder came into the mail; it smelled of the almost burning paper scent that mechanical sorting machine at the post office leaves behind on every envelope it touches. The address was penned in a writing that had no pen behind it. A fine blocky print left by a computer set on obscenely small character size filled the upper left corner with script. Annoyed, she'd tossed it on the counter, not bothering to open it until three days later. It was in the futile mid-month hunt for the electric bill that her gaze fell upon it again. Too bulky to be junk mail, too svelte to be a bill she had idly opened it, wanting to hold off the inevitable trip upstairs to nurse the newest symptom of Denzel's for a few moments. The envelope's top was stubborn, but gave with a firm tug, inside was a letter... and a business card. The insignia on the upper right corner had been dabbed out with white out, leaving a lumpish, squarish mass on the top. Only a telephone number and the word "hope" remained unscathed.

All bemused she pocketed the card and had headed upstairs to her labor that was at times tedious, torturous, but wrought always of love.

 


	2. ... The world blazed on

Hope and ghosts

Chapter 2

... The world blazed on

Scraping claw against glass, ghosts hover just outside the windows on nights of a new moon. They rattle there chains and scrape against the windows moaning with the voices of a thousand scars and hundred torments.

Those were the ghosts that she was comfortable with.

Hands white with the force of her grip she said nothing, gently, mutely, pulling the phone away from her ear so she wouldn't have to hear the voice on the other end. It had been a slow night, business was slow with a pandemic going on, with her sole customer was sleeping away his indulgence at the table. Fishing the card out from her pocket she'd indulged a whim, and for that whim all the ghosts of her past reared up their heads with an awful cry.

They spoke with the voices of burning, the splinter of wood shattering was there motions, the smoke the form of their voice.

_"I hate them... I hate them all!"_

And around her the world seemed to burn, closing her eyes she could smell the scent of ash and taste the flavor of flame. Bitter and bright. Still, not all ghosts were bitter, some found place in the form of manners and tact. She lift the phone to its traditional place, rising her shoulder to better brace the arch of the receptacle.

"I apologize sir, it seems as if I-"

"Called the right number, babe?" The voice held a familiar leer, she could almost see the speaker's green eyes thin with wicked amusement. There came an odd sound, a static stuffed disturbance than the familiar voice rose in a whine that had nothing of its previous pur.

"Oh come _on_ boss-man, seriously, I was just bein' friendly-like!"

"Your "friendly" sounds suspiciously like "sexual harassment", Reno."

No names needed, no introductions were tendered; only a sense of motion carried over the wavelength as alien sounds assaulted her ears. When the speaker on the other end took complete control of the situation and spoke his soft voice twined with memories and acidic smoke.

"Ms. Lockheart?"

She couldn't speak, for the shock if it all, the hand holding the phone shook. Though her agonies were silent, somehow, someway, he knew. And, like always, he addressed the issue with a passionless candor that was the trademark of his kind.

"This isn't a trap, Ms. Lockheart." A chuckle, cold and absently cruel sheared through the silence. "If it were I would be mad to leave a return address on the envelope." She folded to the unspoken prompt. Picking up the envelope she considered it with the most untraditional of holds. A childish throwback that wasn't lost in smoke and fire... Index finger enduring the poke of a point apiece she held the envelope suspended by its upper edges. With the barest of nudges the paper swung as if it were on a hinge. Clean, printed... "Even Turks have their honor."

_"I know him better than anyone else... He's the only one who's known me my whole life..."_

She caught the paper mid swing, stilling the motion with the quick interception of her thumbs.

"Why?"

"Because it's needed."

She hung undecided between her two options of acceptance and denial. Now that her first surge of adrenaline driven impulse -"Hang up!" Screamed her nerves, the memories- had somewhat abated she found her gaze going up. The fire faded to insignificance in the face of a stairway, and that's all she could see now. In her mind and her heart there was the stairway, tall, looming, it's twentyish some steps seemed too daunting for words.

"Tseng." The nominative came hesitantly, the lack of vehemence to her tone brought home the obvious. The man's name was a Wutia name, the man who bore it should have been an enemy of Shinra. Instead its owner was Shinra's most loyal right hand man. From the vault of memory came the while of blades, the roar of an engine whose rumbles set her bones to throb and he hands to aching. "That day... Did you walk Marleen home?"

Perhaps startled by the query, or the familiar use of his name, the Turk was silent a good long time. Finally, grudgingly, the answer came. "Yes." It was offered in a whisper, a confession that was barely uttered and that alluded to a glimmering of forbidden humanity and forsaken humor. "The slums, then and now, are hardly suitable for children to be let loose in."

"Run loose." She corrected him absently, her own -Courage? Familiarity?- whatever it was language failed to provide the word, so she let it slide, forgotten for now. Her tongue, ignoring heart and head was hardly going to relinquish its place in the lead. "Children run loose, caged creatures like Chocobos _are_ let loose."

A sigh, exasperate, came from the Turks' end. That sound was the only concession Tseng made that he'd even heard her words. His next statement was mired in assumption, laced with confidence, and served with his omnipresent accent in ready attendance.

"Speaking of children, it has come to my attention that one in your care is ill. Transportation will be provided in twenty four hours’ time to the residence of the return address upon your mail, Ms. Lockheart."

Limbo had claimer her, she hung between extremes being pulled along by a decision taken out of her hands.

"Ten AM, sharp?" She wondered why he bothered to ask. His question was more demand than inquiry.

"Ti-fa!"

"I..." Licking her lips, head craning to look up the stairs she longed to just hang up, to go to more important things. "I have to go." The words came out in a breathy rush, guilt laden, remorse choked.

"Ten AM, than." The Turk affirmed, satisfaction warming the man's tone until it sounded human. Tifa wasn't listening though, and missed the man's lapse. She'd already hung up and was on her way to more important things, taking the stairs three at a time.

X

"Sweetheart, baby!" Poking his head out the car - a black, sleek, sullen, beast that growled even in park- his red hair was a bloody hued attention grabber. Bold green eyes glinting, teeth bared in an over friendly smile. His head went up and down nodding to her angles. Despite herself, Tifa smiled. Out of all her ghosts this one was almost human... humane. Curious, Denzel considered the red head and the pale man left his sport of drooling to match gazes.

"So's this' the squirt, Denzel, right?" The last was the closest Reno got to a polite salutation. With an offended "hurmf" Denzel crossed his arms over his chest -one bandaged, the other not- and glowered.

"I'm _not_ a squirt!"

To that the Turk chuckled, green eyes gleaming. Out of all the Turk's Reno seemed the most sane.

"Back's open, pile in."

Slowed by shyness and the impressed lesson of not talking to strangers, Denzel shuffled forward one hesitant step at a time.

Tifa's pace was slowed for other reasons.

Emerald eyes knowing, Reno's lips lost some of their curl. Looking past them and into the bustling street he drummed a harsh tune on the curve of the steering wheel, totally beyond them all.

"Just don't play with the Hydra in the back seat."

"You have a _Hydra_ in the car?" Denzel gasped, shyness lost in awe.

Having fought a few of the monsters in a lifetimes' past Tufa rose an eyebrow, her expression telling long tales of disbelief. Quicker than a shot Denzel was at the car, had pulled open the nearest door, and scrambled in. Some of the glee left the Turk's face, the red head still grinned his victory and his eyes were wide with a devious twinkle housed amongst them. It was with that expression on his face that he explained.

"It's a kind of gun Tif’. Go eight heads, spits out eight rounds per half second. Real room wrecker, yo." Catching the woman's look of horror Reno's smile became a sadists smirk. Recalling where she'd seen that look, on that day long ago when the sky fell down -" _That's all folks"-_ a familiar horror clutched her heart. "Now, I think I took out the bullets. Could be wrong, but ol' precog's not going off on me an' I got a mastered Wall materia on me just in case..."

"Denzel, sweetie," trying valiantly to keep the fear out of her tone and failing utterly Tifa "piled in" as Reno had planned. "Don't play with _any_ guns you find in that car you hear-"

The door clocked closed and the car's growl became a roar as Reno smashed the pedal to the metal.

X

It was oddly quiet, unnaturally so, and had been so the second the door closed. Insulated in a bullet proof frame with a cache of silence, barrier, and other defensive materia’s buried in the frame of their vehicle they blazed down streets, cut through freeways, and set pedestrians and motorists scattering out of the way. Entranced by the breakneck pace -made all the more distant since you couldn't hear the screams, blaring horns, or curses- Denzel pressed his nose to the glass to watch the world blaze by.

"How come _you_ don't drive like this Tifa?" Denzel squealed, dropping his normal reserve in the excitement of the moment, pale features flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling behind their black rings.

"Sharp turn,-" Reno barked. "-right!"

To that warning Tifa acted, reaching out she braced the boy against herself and her feet against the floor. All her strength was just barely enough to keep them from crashing through the window Denzel had been staring out of. Even as she endured her stomach clenched as the car tipped and her heart only started beating against when -with a series of jerks- all four wheels settled back on the ground. Thrown back against the seat she realized at last why the leather pads had seemed so plush. They'd been doubly insulated to accommodate for Reno's insane driving.

"Sharp turn, left!"

Holding Denzel tight she braced again, the world outside the car became a blur of color and tipped on its other side. Teetering between the worlds of terror and adrenaline Denzel was laughing even as he held onto her so tight that his hands were white. Another series of bone jarring hops heralded the car's return to equilibrium. When her bones stopped rattling and her teeth ceased chattering she loosened her grip. Denzel was squirming free even before she was ready to let him go, and he eagerly went to the window to better watch the world roll by.

"The reason I don't drive like Reno, sweetie, is because Reno drives like a lunatic."

Too enchanted with the kaleidoscope of scenery Denzel didn't hear. A flash of white bracketed by red caught Tifa's eye, and told her at least one of the two males present at least was listening. Reno smiled, an ear to ear grin, and that smile’s context was left for the viewer to wonder about - for at least half a minute before he revealed his sadists intent.

"Hey, it's a straight line from Midgar to Healin' for like the next thirty miles, should I gun it?"

One cheer served as all the answer Reno needed, with a laugh the Turk hit the gas peddle with a foot of lead.

X

Even at break neck speeds a tree was a tree. Velocity aside it would always remain a tree, and on the off chance of collision would seem to solid a tree. Like it always did, impact confirmed the obvious, a tree was a tree no matter the speed you passed it by. Soon this truth came home to roost and what was once exciting became dull. With a yawn he stumbled onto truth and sleep one after another. Obliging to the comatose state of one of his passengers the Turk eased up on the speed until they were only ten miles above the speed limit. Green eyes considered them both from the glassy facade of the rear view mirror.

"Both of you look like hell."

She smiled, shook he head, her black hair tickling her ears and slapping at the back of her neck.

"Sweetheart you look like you haven't slept in a week, and he's paler than a recluse slum rat from under the plate."

Touching the tips of Denzel's fingers -as much of his right hand she dared touch- Tifa said nothing only looked up at the glass until the reflected eyes drifted back down.

"I'm not sayin' you're makin' the bad choice here," He laughed a harsh back of a laugh. "A Turk's not 'xactly morally equipped to say what's right and all, ya know?"

She squeezed Denzel's finger tips gently, and signed.

"Regrets, Reno?"

"Sometimes, ya live with 'em." He shrugged with enough force to wrinkle his black suit some around the top. "Tricky span up ahead." The red head drawled, eyes locked on the perfectly smooth and empty span stretched before them. "So I'll ask nice-like for you to shut up now."

Closing her eyes Tifa meant only to rest them and honor his request. She left the world of the awake before the count of ten heartbeats had come and gone, lost in the bliss of oblivious as the world blazed on.


	3. Equal exchange

Hope and ghosts

Chapter Three

An Equal Exchange

It was raining, a sullen drizzle that heralded slate grey clouds that brought images of Midgar to those enamored with the city and its brimstone towers. Not being one of those Tseng contemplated the sky and it's grey bellies with a frown of concern. The air was thick with moisture; the President would need his cane. To that thought he frowned, and set his head against the cool window plane. Form the other side, the planet's tears fell from the sky, smearing the glass with stuff that was translucent yet robbed sight of its finer edges. Looking blindly onto the world he sighed, breath fogging up the window plane. Setting his head against window, he found, as expected, that the chill of the glass did nothing to soothe this mad, burning, fever called living.

XXX

"Mom? Dad? I… I want you to meet someone."

She seemed young again, young and unsure, less than the person he knew. Perhaps this was a throwback to a more childish time. Whatever it was, he was hardly pleased, though he forbade from frowning. Any hostility on his part might blow this tentative operation of "meeting the family" out of the water. She bent one knee, scratched at the back of her leg with the toe of her boot, eyes resolutely _down_ , voice hitched high with anxiety. Now, shaky opening complete, she rushed through the rest, lifting her gaze and biting her lips.

"This is Tseng."

Silence, he'd encountered this breed of quiet before, it was the standard prelude to combat. For recognizing it he tensed, Turk instincts jangling, his heart starting to quicken pace.

"Mrs. Woodwright, Mr. Woodwright, an honor." He bowed, pointedly trying to ignore their glares, the hot accusations that boiled in their eyes.

A man, older than Tseng-

_But not by much, by all of fifteen years, and that wasn't long as it sounded when you considered Veld was that age now… assuming Veld was still alive, of course._

-with something of Elena's hair color and perhaps the shape of her face about his own grunted, Brown eyes hard, killer hard to a trained killed, uncomfortable that to see such a trait in a civilian. The man grunted, only that, and to primitive sound Elena winced as if taking a knife.

Unable to help himself he joined her, set a hand on her shoulder, and offered what comfort he could by touch alone. For that the elder woman who had nothing of Elena's grace and a few of her features looked concerned, worried, and worn.

"This…" Swallowing, taking courage in hand, she continued. "Is my boyfriend. Well... he's more than that but... well... we haven't set a date yet or anything but... it's a possibility. And I wanted you to meet him." Reaching up, blindly, never looking to him, she set her hand on his. To that touch he twined her fingers between his, holding her gentle but tight.

Looking up, bandaged face hiding a morass of sores and decay, the declining elder of the Woodwright line snorted. And that set off the barrage.

"Like hell you are-"

"He's a _Turk_ sweetheart, you don't want anything to do with that ty-"

"No child of mine-"

"Gaia itself struck down Shinra-"

On and on it went, and he listened without listening. He was a victim of sorts, a numb detached one, but one all the same. Noting all the excuses and complaints and protests without intending too, he endured. Hearing was synonymous with memorizing, at least for one such as him. And… for one such as her, and that was something of a tragedy all its own. Finally, with a choked little sob, she broke free from his touch and stepped forward, doing as she must, to take the hits bravely though it must have hurt beyond telling.

"Yes, Tseng is a Turk. I'm one too. Or did you think I was his doxy, some secretary that lounged on his desk?" To her challenge they fell, silent and bitter all at once. "And I love him. All I want is your blessing! For you to be happy for me for once in your Holy damned lives! To see… to see that _I'm_ happy for once in my life. That's it, that's all!"

"What right do you have to speak of happiness in this house?" The woman shrilled, showing beyond a doubt which side of the family Elena had gotten that screechy, full throated scream of furry from. "How dare you? With Samul dead when the wrath of God fell down… Your very own father rotting by inches? How dare you speak of happiness, how dare you!"

Mouth opening, closing, Elena seemed robbed of speech for once. Pale face pallid, she shook, her blue eyes glistening… And to that Tseng acted, because he had to. Her pain, this scene, was wholly his fault.

"That wasn't God's wrath."

Silence, shocked silence edged with hostility. They looked at him, one and all, even Elena, like a pack of wide eyed fools.

"Not God." He amended, corrected. "Just a man aspiring to be one. Against my orders your _daughter_ fought against that manmade devil for life to continue. Even now, she fights for revitalization of this _Planet_ stricken world." And to their silence, heartened, he continued. "This world births materia, the thoughts of the dying... Though evil, the Black was born of this world, of its people. The fact that its effects seemed celestial is... merely a point of irony. That's all."

Silence, no longer edged with anger, it steamed with it. Struggling against bandages and illness and palsied limbs, the old man with a ghost of Elena's features about him fought to his feet.

"Get out, now! I'll be damned twice before I see either one of you ever again! Get out and take that Shinra cunt with you!"

"Daddy!" Elena whimpered, the whole of her a broken, miserable, thing.

He didn't think, couldn't think. Hand shooting down, he pulled the gun from his belt and had it leveled and ready before thought was even an option.

" _You take that back, you bastard_." Tseng hissed, black eyes burning, hand steady despite his rage that shook his sanity ragged. " _You take that back you son of a bitch, or blood relation to Elena or not I'll kill you so hard and sure your blood will run from one end to the other of this hovel."_

From the wide eyed looks of terror no translation was needed. But then, some things were just... universal.

"Tseng!" Half protest, half squeak, Elena reached but stopped short of wrenching his gun from him. Smart girl, she knew what it meant when the blackness of his eyes became alive. Silence fell, as the civilians shivered and shook and were stupidly, pathetically frozen. _This_ was why the Turks only dealt with the Turks, any other type of communications was worthless and this was proving him right. Yet again. One of them moved one of those damned civilians and he turned the gun accordingly. _No one moves,_ he didn't even have to say it, the younger man who had little of Elena's features went very still. To that he nodded, then turned to the Woodwright elder.

" _That apology, you can start any time now_."

When the man looked at him blankly, blue eyes utterly perplexed, the Turk lowered his gun and fired. The old man recoiled, someone screamed... And where the old man had set his foot before -a mere millimeter in front of the large toe- there was a sizable hole that smoked.

Then, crazy upon insanities, _she_ laughed, startling him back to a fraction of sanity.

"You're speaking Wutia, Tseng." Elena rebuked him, speaking as he was not, in a language that made sense to those around her. "No one in the family speaks Wutia but me."

"That apology, now." Tseng spat, switching languages, and then when the old man hesitated Tseng snapped out a rather graphic threat. After all, it would not do for them to think that he wasn't a Turk. The suit he wore was not for show and civilians needed little _reminders_ of that from time to time. "Or I'll blast your brains out you soulless son of a bitch."

It was given, stiffly, utterly false, but the forum had been made. So, as she wanted him to, he grudgingly accepted. At acceptance's end he put the gun in its holster, eyes flicking from every member of Elena's family. From mother to father to the handful of other males who had bits and pieces of Elena's features amongst them. Uncles? Cousins? He hardly cared.

"I've come, per Continental custom, to ask your daughter's hand. Whether you say yes or no is highly irrelevant to the fact that I've already filed the legal paperwork." To that even Elena looked startled. "She's mine, consent or no. But... she asked; to see you, to speak to you, and for me to ask as a gentleman would. Furthermore there's been conflicting stories amongst you that she was dead. I wanted that remedied."

"W... wait a moment here." Perplexed, Elena's mother took a tentative step forward, then stopped as his eyes flicked over her. " _Filed_ the paperwork, by law... Well to fill the paperwork out..."

"She'd have to have signed the consent papers for a legal name change, etcetera." Tseng finished the thought with a shrug. "I simply filled it out for her, forging her name in the right blank spots."

"Tseng." Elena's tone was carefully controlled, her face Turk blank. He loved her more for it for when compared to the faces of her kin that were all varying between nonplused to shocked... Her calm was a welcome slice of normalcy, as the Continentals were so fond of stating. "Are you telling me you've been spying on my family, that you forged my name on legal documents, my wedding paperwork no less, and did all this without telling me, or getting caught?"

"Yes." He snorted at her rather unprofessional show of surprise. After all it had been an easy trick, a... bit of simple forging that he hadn't stooped too since being a "rookie" himself. "It was my specialty back when Veld was running things." Another shrug, one that almost bunched the shoulders of his uniform. "Why are you so surprised?"

"You... Because you never even proposed to me first! That's why you jerk!"

"Oh." Eyes wide at her vehemence Tseng of the Turks quickly regained his composure and his slanted eyes resumed their normal width with a small delay. "So that's how you do things here?"

"Yes. That's how you do "things" here you _baka_."

"Oh." He blinked, and then smiled, recalling how Reno had advised long ago that a smile with an apology generally made the drama end quickly. "Well, I apologize then."

The word she called him in Wutia told him that he was not forgiven under no terms and no matter his wishful thinking.

"Tseng." Snapping a hand over her eyes, she moaned his name, for a few moments it was only her and him. "Why do you have to be so... so dense sometimes."

To that there was only one response possible, so he said it.

"Turk training I suppose." Then, irritated by the days surplus of drama, emoting, and unprofessionalism, he added. "Are we or are we not going to stay on the premises for dinner? If not I could get in contact with Reno at the 'chopter pa-"

"Like hell you're staying here! Much less for _dinner_!" The Woodwright elder snarled, almost sitting up straight at that potent mix of horror and hate that thought brought on.

"Tseng!" Elena groaned, a familiar red flush staining her cheeks. "I was supposed to bring it up, not you!"

"Well?" The Turk grumbled. "Don't take all day then, bring it up or let's go."

"We're going to have a talk, a long one, on the way back." Elena snarled, sounding much like her old self.

To that Tseng smiled, pleased that something was going alright at last.

"A long talk." Elena threatened ominously.

"Yes, Elena, I imagine it will be a long one. I look forward to it."

To that her flush deepened, and some fool whistled. Turning to that sound he let his black eyes glare the would-be-comedian into the dirt.

"We're... we're staying for dinner." Elena snapped. Forcing out each word, pointedly not looking at her father. "No matter how much you don't want us too. And don't try to poison us, we've both got mastered scan materia and cure materia too. So no tricks."

 _Poison..._ Instead of being enraged, Tseng, ever a Turk, was intrigued. He offered the hand of (hopefully, but in truth already illegally) his bethroed and she in turn took it _. It seems as if I married into the right family after all_. Bemused, he twined his fingers amongst hers and thus hand in hand they walked to the kitchen. Elena's chatter filling up the shocked silence behind them. She pointed out the sites even as she lead him onward. Onward, to the kitchen.

He'd had odder mission objectives in his life, but none quite so... unique as this one.

XX

The phone sat folded on the window's edge. Black and glossy without that familiar red emblem to mark it as a part of something greater than itself. And, as he watched from the corner of his eye, he saw without meaning too. That lack of insignia rankled, and to such subtle agonies he sighed. It all was just another reminder of reality and truth, a reality he loathed and bitter truths he hated. They were no longer allowed the luxury of symbol, shapes and colors all would raise old ghosts by the legion and with such a macabre presence among them what hopes they held for the future to must fail.

Such was the curse of disquiet past. Cruel and bitter, it hung before him. Part truth, mostly regret, none of it distilled or forgiven by that lone redeeming fact that not one of them had meant to be part of this madness.

They'd strove to break away from it, truth be told. From day one. From that first and precious moment. But like unruly beasts they'd been broken. Broken and lead, then at long last set to the harness and made to walk the same damned, damning circles until the world broke under them. Such was the nature of inheritance, Tseng mused. From his father in spirit who'd left him a ruin to run. To the boy... the child he had raised as his own who'd been left _in_ ruins by his biological sire.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure which inheritance had been the most vile. Personal experience said _mine was_ but that view was tainted, to say the very least.

"Such as we are damned, for loving." The Turk noted morosely, cradling a cool cup in frigid fingers. "Damned and perhaps, mercifully, we are forgotten."

So he prayed with true fervor of the desperate. He prayed they were all forgotten, forgotten by the Continental people's "God" who so whimsically passed out punishment and plagues by the score. May they be forgotten by the people of Midgar, so that time could distance him and his own from those recalled and raw atrocities inflicted on the masses. Then, when all the forgetting was complete, and they were a figment of imagination, of fanciful thought rather than a breath of nightmare that had been... Then they could be born again. He sipped water, and ached for coffee, as well as a few other things. Setting the wooden cup down, it clacked as it took its place besides the phone. Tseng glanced at the window, and as last time he found the view beyond was no comfort. Nor that second sound he'd just heard that was fast on the heels of the first.

In setting down cup he'd accidentally struck his ring against the window's edge. Bemused, he stared at the silver band on his right hand, stared and wondered (and must truthfully of all, he worried). Aware and not bothering to show it, he ran the digits of his left hand over the silver of his right. Thus she found him, and approached him, all as he wished to be. Seen musing, mulling, and her response -as always, she'd ever surprised him; all part of her charm- was to embrace him from behind. Very... unsurprised, he said nothing, and as always she took that as invitation to talk.

"He hasn't called yet?" Elena murmured, her arms were binding yet light.

"Hmmm."

"Are we being angsty in a Turk appropriate, detached, sort of way?" Elena teased, limbs sliding down so they slipped from his shoulders to his mid-section.

"You were much easier to live with before you started reading fantasy fiction geared to the adolescent minded." Tseng growled, folding his arms over her own. By touch alone he knew her garment as _not_ Turk issue, furthermore the silk and stitching told him it was his. "You've been in my closet again." He noted, only that.

"Our closet." Elena corrected firmly. "What's mine is yours-"

"And yours is mine, for better or worse." Tseng corrected and concluded all in one pass.

"Mmm Hmm!"

The animation sounded drowsy, but that was to be expected after all. In the cold and rain he woke ears pricked to catch the nascence of thunder before it rolled. Lightning, slicing and scalding the film black of his eyes _must_ be seen, for he must know how it struck and when it hit. For her, the whole of her hearing was filled with monotonous patter of water striking earth. She sought warmth to banish the cold he sought. Having found her _warmth_ for the moment, she snuggled while standing, one hand idly tracing this scar or that line that she could feel through his uniform.

"How long you've been here watching the road?"

"A few hours."

"Lonely?"

So many hours, waiting for this call or that report. Balancing cost to clause to cause, and striking the middle path between the three. They loomed before him, recalled and accounted for, all and one. He felt each of those moments in his weary soul, his worn body, and tired flesh. Cradling her arms with his own, he sighed, and mutely gave thanks that he was not alone.

Still, he made a point of saying nothing; it wasn't his way to say much after all.

And, just his luck, Elena had words enough for them both.

""I'm here, and Rude, and Rufus, and.. that dog-thing."

"'Nation." Tseng supplied.

"Whatever."

"Dark Nation." The Turk corrected firmly.

"Whatever you say." Elena agreed lightly. "Anyways, we're here, all of us."

He sighed, exasperated with the woman, just a little bit. He loved her, of course, for so many reasons. For loyalty perhaps, or courage, or for being as he was: a Turk, with no remorse to either job or title. For that, and reasons he never delved, he loved her and she adored him, even before he had loved her. Insane as that may be, giving affection and never expecting to receive any in turn. Still, if she was a little crazy, so was he. It all was part of being a Turk. She had waited. through frequent rages and forced tranquility, through professional detachment, and blood of killing and the killed, she loved him and waited. Patiently biding her time until he was sure how _he_ felt, and when he had realized his truth and returned her adoration for his affection they had both been rewarded. Still love and its complexities aside, she _could_ be trying. Repeating the obvious until it became obnoxious and wore at his patience.

"We're all here, so you don't have to be along anymore. Not like before."

With a snarl heaven spat fire and sound,. He considered the grey guts of the clouds before the dark swallowed them up. Blinking back the pain of light against his eyes, Tseng smiled. His eyes burned, but such was to be expected after such a display.

"Thank you."

To that, quiet a little, a span without words, then at last the expected...

"You're welcome."

And after that, for a little while, there was silence.


	4. Whistle While you Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's borderline Mature, partially for Reno's mouth partially for Reno's actions. If anyone feels the ranking should go up let me know.

Hope and Ghosts

Chapter Four

Whistle While you Work

On the last rest stop between home and Healin' Reno insisted they stop. So, the car pulled in and out went the driver’s door with a bang despite being insulated by enough materia to make Yuffie drool. Daring a downpour that made the road a soup and a sham of clothes, Reno barreled out squealing "Have to go, have to go, have to mother effin' go!" to the uncaring elements. Once past the illumination of the headlights he was gone in that green, tree filled, downpour. His voice fading even as the cold moved in.

It was the cold that decided her. It was a stretch, still she made it, half crawling to the front seat all to get to the door. With a tug she pulled it shut, almost smashing her fingers as a result. Denzel's "burr" told her she wasn’t quick enough. For a little he shivered, and though she didn't want to admit it, she shivered too. For a little it was the two of them, alone but together, shaking with the cold.

After a while, she offered. He stared at her, blue eyes uncomprehending, then in bits and pieces, he understood. Shuffling closer -carefully minding the hand marred by Geostigma- until at last he leaned against her. With a smile to say thanks, he remained close. And for his closeness she held him, light but tight.

Warm, together, they listened to the ra-ta-tam of rain tapping against the cars' roof. When at last Denzel's shivering was past he went still. Then, inevitably, he fell to squirming.

"Denzel?" Tifa shifted her grip, fearing it was the Stigma, or something even worse.

"I... I have to go..." Denzel muttered, dropping his gaze but not before she saw the blush spreading.

"Of course." Careful not to smile, Tifa loosed her grip. "Do you need me to go with you, so you don't get lost?"

"No!" Then quieter, once his indignation had passed. "I won't get lost."

To that she smiled and kissed him on the forehead despite his Geostigma. Endearment done, she let him go with only a "be careful" to see him off. No nattering or nagging, or hovering followed, only a quick grin and a small nudge to set him on his way. With a grin all his own, Denzel smiled his thanks. This was one of many reasons Tifa was so cool! Maybe one of the coolest people on the world!

XXX

With a sigh up went the fly. Bit of personal business done, Reno gave the porcelain and steel urinal a long look. Never mind bein' out in the freaky jungle the rest stop was _almost_ as modern as the Johns in ol' Shinra tower. Like the damned bit of plumbing back at Shinra there was no handle. Only a strip of plastic and an omnipresent, unblinking, eye. Correction, red eye was a little glaring Jr. to the Big One that's come down from up high forever and a day ago. Lifting a black boot, he blotted out the eye. Poking his toe into Jenova Jr.'s unblinking peeper.

No flush came, even after he'd poked and prodded the light with his foot more than once. Nothing happened. Go figure the John out in this jungle boonies was broke. Go frekain' figure, just his damned luck. Flipping the Calamity's mini-me the bird Reno slammed the eye with the steel heel of his boot. Plastic crunched, and with a spit of sparks Jenova's latest spawn of satin pushed up daisies.

"And that's how the Turks do business, yo!"

From ahead a door smashed open, a stall to the left, a stall between him and the door. Wincing just a little, the Turk was forced to recall reality and the present once again. Never heroes when things had been good, they'd been branded villains after things had turned rotten. " _Which is why_ " an inner voice that sounded _waaa_ y too much like Tseng's (AKA boss-man's) for comfort chimed in from the back of his skull. " _We must be discrete_."

Which he hadn't been, just now that was.

Steps tromped on the mud browned tiles, heavy and loud and filled with malicious intent

"Maaan." Reno moaned.

A shadow darkened his stall. Broad and big about the center, and for seeing it Reno sighed at its coming. He'd expected it, called it in even, and as a Turk he'd have to deal out what he'd whistled over. That was just how things went. Watching the spitting sparks and jagged plastic, the Turk shifted his pants, slipped his belt into place, never once bothering to act like he knew what was behind him. A low growl from the back made him finally respond.

So much for the guy chickening out and all, oh well...

"Seriously man." Reno drawled, Midgarian street rat slum in full attendance. "Let it go. Whatever B.S. reason ya got to pick a fight with me, just let it go yo. Walk away. I didn't see you and you didn't see me, capishe?"

Silence, and Reno'd be damned if the shadow didn't darken as whoever it was drew close. Narrowing his eyes, as a thought came to roost -one he didn't like at all- the Turk half turned. "You pull my 'tail and I'll kick your ass." The Turk warned.

Such was the details of their standoff. A fat prick of a trucker right behind him, thick fists clenched, face twisted in hate and a Turk half turned all caught in the small squarish bounds of the bathroom stall. It drug on for a minute, then, insane as could be, someone knocked on the door leading in. To that fatso almost jumped, and Reno smirked at the man's easily shook manner. Right threat at the right time and the guy might just bolt.

The sound from the door, that voice, blew what hopes he had for a peaceful solution right out of the water.

"Hello... is anyone in here? This..." A hiccup, maybe a muffled sob or cough, the rain muddied up sound like it did dirt. "This is the _guys_ bathroom this time, right?"

Lips quirking, Reno knew he'd pay a lot of Gil to hear the story behind that question. Reno nipped at his lip to keep from howling. A bit of unprofessionalism to be sure, but some kids could bring the kid out of the Turk by accident it seemed. The smirk that the man to his back let out, that cruel quirking of a lip and face that said "kid mean something to you?" louder than words chased all the laughter out of Reno. The Turk felt his eyes thin to slits even as his smile went wide, so wide the scars under his tattoos ached.

 _Kid men something to you?_ Cricking his knuckles, confirming the malicious intent without any words needed the trucker half turned to the sound of the boy's voice.

_Hell yeah he is!_

Turning on his heel, he snatched the front of his would be assailants shirt (sensitive hands telling him it was cheap ass fabric, part cotton, mostly synthesized junk people thought of as shirts) with one hand and slapped his other over the man's mouth. Big and bulky, the bastard thrashed, and might be able to wiggle free if he got enough momentum. Not about to let that happen Rneo smashed his foot into the man's crotch. With a muffled howl, the man's legs buckled, and the Turk eased him down so the Squirt wasn't tipped off by a loud "thud".

"Yo, Denzel, it is the guys going hole and all, but can you hold it in? Just for me?"

"Wha- Reno? You're still in here?"

"Un hunh. And kid. Ya gota know-" He gasped, then hissed in pain as the truckie jerk sank his teeth into the Turk's palm. "I'm passing a damned brick here, man. With square corner an' all. Can ya give a guy some space?"

A giggle then, that and a door closing as the boy thoughtfully slipped outside again. Most beautiful sounds ever, those. He grunted then, as the would-be Turk killer jerked his head, making that bite count. Ripping his hand free, Reno shifted and loosed his support all in one go. Seeing only freedom, knowing now he could stand, the civilian struggled to stand. Limbs scrabbling on piss slicked tiles, grip the earth, push up... All the regulation moves to "get up" if the Turk had ever seen them. Smashing his bloody hand down, Reno struck the slight swell on the man's back. That subconscious arch that screamed "I'm getting up now!" to those who knew what to look for. With a crack and whoosh the arch went flat, as did the man. For a second the fatso's limbs kept pushing up, but that second came and went and the limbs went slack. Scrambling became spasming, between one blink and the other. And to that Reno smiled, wild and wide, till his scars burned man.

Eyes bugging, mouth babbling (a soundless noise that'd turn loud real fast if the man was left alone long enough) the trucker turned Turk slayer was slowly but surely getting his wake up call. Maybe he knew what the numbness meant, maybe not. Not wanting to waste the time finding out either way Reno poked his head out the door. Clear and clean, well save a sneeze that was muffled by the door leading in. Clearly Squirt was catching a cold.

Picking up the body (with a great "grunt") he dragged the newly made paraplegic ("My ass, it burns!" he howled all the while, sniggers from outside telling him the right sound was being heard) into a stall way in the back and in the dark. Moving done, he rolled up his sleeves to show off the glittering materia that was set in a bracer just below his elbow. Two flashes of light later -one purple, that turned shadows into gags, the other a surreal silver that was the stuff of Sunday naps and weekend laziness made luminance- and Reno left his assailant under the effects of a Mute and Slow. Tossing another Slow on the toilet after a flush as the water was rising... well all slow-like... turned a slow pace to a snail’s one. Flipping up the lid, Reno gently but firmly set the trucker's chin in the mostly empty bowl. Making a point to get that guys face well below the water stained line the Turk pated the man's head.

A mute "ta-ta bastard" if there ever was one. Closing the door behind him, he locked it from the outside, an easy feat if you knew what you were about. Digging in his pocket, the Turk came up with some matches, and even as he rolled down his sleeve he struck up a flame. The bitter smell and familiar flame made him smile, and he waved that mini torch around like it mattered. Breathing out the spark he let out a loud sigh, and poking his head in an empty stall made it flush like it mattered. Chucking the charred wood in the swirly waters as an afterthought.

"Coast is clear."

As the door opened, reveling a wet and dripping (and dancing the "gotta go dance" and giggling) Denzel, Reno grinned. Scars still burning, the Turk let out a loud laugh.

"Man you should have seen that sucker, I swear I lost ten pounds!"

Giggling became howls, howls of laughter that was, and to that Reno laughed along.

"Come on man, go already and let's split."

To that the boy looked baffled and perhaps a little lost. He shivered too, Squirt was shivering something fierce. Slipping past the Turk, eyes only for the nearest stall, Denzel stopped when Reno set a hand on his shoulder. A shrug later, and the Turk was divested of his trademark coat, he offered the garment and the kid stilled. After a long moment, the boy blinked, then hesitantly accepted what was offered. Then the dance was on, and with a quick smile to say thanks Squirt ducked into the nearest stall and by the sound did his thing. Chuckling, easing his laughter to the Turk's akin to a giggle Reno busied himself at the sink. A quick peak in the mirror showed Squirt to still be at it, so Reno waved under the facet and set the water to running. Another waive, and he had soap galore. Clearing away, minding the deeper parts of the bite, he scrubbed his newest wound with tender care that still made the whole of his palm scream with pain. Sparing a second glance Reno flicked his eye to the bulge on his arm, a green glow dimmed by the long sleeve of his 'form but the light was familiar and a relief. Soundlessly the gash knitted itself up, and Reno cleaned away, the last bits of blood. Red fell from his hands and into the sink.

Smiling despite the burn, Reno whistled while he worked, from behind Denzel laughed all the louder.


	5. Softie job

Hope and Ghosts

Chapter 5

Softie Job

He hadn't meant to get sick. After going he'd padded to the sink, intent on cleaning his hands. With his fingers and wrists mired in pink tinged bubbles, he felt a kind of lurch. Like someone had tugged the whole of Gaia and set it on an angle. A twitch took his legs, and he winced at the sensation. It didn't hurt or nothing, but he hadn't meant to, didn't want to….

Gritting his teeth, resolving not to get sick (not in front of strangers, not ever again) Denzel took one step back. And between his feet lifting off the ground and setting down the slant of Gaia changed again, and was greased besides. He slipped on nothing, landed on -Something that crunched, and was cold, and it _crunched-_ with a grunt.

A hot horrid warmth thick like syrup but ran so quick. He could feel it dribble from the side of his head, like all the other times. It dribbled and striped down his check. It smelled like spit, and soot and smoke all at once and… -hovering weight, a pain on his back, fists clenching his lungs- he cried out and gagged all at once.

Hands grabbed him. Warm, human without gloves or the burning stink that screamed "sanitizers". A voice, vaguely familiar, cried out.

-Cold crunched, and there was a man dressed in ice and snow looking up, not at him but beyond him. And the man's shadows (five, each with a difference face and form) looked up too.

Others were there, others he knew from tale and like ( _there_ was Tifa, and Yuffie too! Some excited thing in him cheered) and all looked up. Looked beyond and through him. Curious, for he'd hollered and called and none of them seemed to see, he lifted his head, to follow suit and-

"Denzel, man, wake up!"

Sound fizzled in and out, as if someone was in his head playing with the sounds settings of his ears. Assaulted by white noise –and worse, a whiny shrill that screamed more shrill and sure than any ambulance- and to that he whimpered. Snapping hands over his ears, ignorant now of the goop that rained down his skull, all to block out that horrible, horrifying sound out. When that hot touch came back again, plucking at his wrists and fingers in a futile attempt to make him let go, he curled. Twisting away and bent double, and for all he did that sound did more. Rising in volume and pitch until his brain rattled in his skill. To that an agonized scream slid past his lips, unbidden, uncontrollable, and unheard. Warm hands held him tight though he shrieked.

And words slipped through the scoreless sounds; bits of talk that deteriated beyond babble and ran relays in his head.

"Fit-" A hiss of static, than the cursed word, that unspeakable word… "Stigma-"

"Your arm- "

"Screw that, just give me a hand here Teef."

Wits skewed, his brain locked on the words "your arm" and repeated them with an echo effect on loop, max volume, all in the confines of his head. The screech in his skull dimmed, enough to let him hear his own mans and stop his own screams. And, to give him just a little sensation. He was cold, cold and with a jacket on that wasn't his. Then, the sickness in him (with a snicker no less) snatched the knobs that read "white noise" and Volume" and set both to max.

His sight gave out then, and the world went black.

XXX

The world blazed by. A brown-green smear roofed with gray. She closed her eyes, holding Denzel close as they outraced the world.

"Kiddo had a fit, black ooze and all." Reno barked out the details, no drawl at all. "Shakes and squeals, that type o' fit."

A dry voice, technical and dull, chime in. "The technical terms is…"

"Rude, shut up man, you sound like boss-man when you yap like that. Or worse, like a doc." One bone jarring turn later Reno added. "Where is boss man any who?"

A cough then, tone warming, the Turk on the other line murmured. "With Elena."

Silence, in which Tifa shifted her grip on Denzel and Reno eased off the gas a mite. Once sure Denzel was steady Tifa lifted her gaze. She tried to recall the woman. Blonde, one memory prompted, chatty another confirmed. A shrill voiced banshee when furious or fighting with a killer right hook, or so Cloud had said after being laud up in the Icicle area after the Turk had broken his jaw for him. A glance in the rearview mirror showed Reno to be smiling, wide and sure.

"As in "off the clock" with Elena?" Reno queried.

Ever laconic Ride made a quiet noise that might have been a yep. Or a cough. Either way Reno's head came equipped with some internal Rude translation device that allowed him to glean meaning from the… whatever the sound was.

"Woohoo." The red head cheered oblivious to Tifa's glare. "Rookie and boss man sittin' in a tree, kay eye ess ess eye an gee! First comes looove-"

"Reno!" Tifa snapped.

"Hunh?" The Turk craned his head never minding the road for a bit. "Wha's'it?"

"Denzel is sleeping." The former member of AVALANGE began.

"Sleeping off Geostimatoxicicous." Rude chimed in.

"And he needs quiet." Tifa continued grimly. "Which you aren't being."

"Never is." Rude confided.

Twisting this way and that, looking to PHS speaker than irate AVALANGE member Reno squirmed and twisted spearing both with a glare.

"Now get off it you two- It's not like- I wasn't bein' that loud-"

Scarily, it came in unison, as both Turk fist fighter and AVALANGE brawled snapped.

"Yes you were."

"Was not!" Reno snarled.

"How old are you again?" Tifa countered.

"Old enough to enter the Turk's, sadly."

"Heey!"

"I'll make sure the appropriate team of docs and meds are waiting for you." Ignoring Reno, Rude carried on like always. "If anything else happens, call back."

And with that Rude hung up.

Quiet, then, an eerie near silence as the world blazed by. Even the ra-ta-ta of the rain falling on the roof of the car was muffled by the materia barriers imbedded in the vehicles framework. Staring at the blur of green and gray, Tifa hung in the limbo of circumstance and emotion. Torn between gratitude –when had Rude ever been so nice, so thoughtful, was he always? she wondered- and trepidation -it's all a trap, no one does something for nothing, and God only knows who's really running things. Tseng? Unlikely. He was the man called the Devil after all- she sat pretty as a picture and felt just as useless. Knowing she should say something, she opened her mouth, and all the wrong words tumbled out.

"Why are you helping us?" More accusation than question it hung between them, unanswered for a while. A glance at the rear view mirror showed Reno's face, no smile at all in attendance in that small view.

"I'm taking it from the tone that me sayin' "Cuz boss man said so" aint gunna cut it." And though a question his inflection made it a fact. Hard handled and known as sure. He laughed then, a half bark half laugh hybrid that sounded all torn up and didn't even have a ghost of mirth in attendance. Then, in a tone softer than that laugh, almost too low to be a whisper, he replied.

"It’s hell on a man, the job. Every kill, every blow, it's like a knife inside scoopin;' out "weakness" or "Anti-company sentiment"..." A pause then, rueful yet warm. "Them’s companies words, not mine, yo."

Dropping his gaze, sharp shooters eyes fixed on the road, Reno sighed.

"Boss man he knows that. So every now and then we get softie jobs. Not easy stints, or lazy stuff. Too much ease and we think things over, start to wonder… Bad thing in this biz babe, _to think."_

Ironic that, considering Reno was part of the "Intelligence and research" department

"So." Holding Denzel close, Tifa looked up at that bar of glass, and Reno looked down at her by virtue of reflection. "That's all this is, a job?"

"Softie job." The Turk corrected, grin returning in bits and pieces he assembled it slowly over the course of many long seconds. When it was full and in force he met her eyes. "All this ever was, a softie job."


	6. Chapter 6

Hope and Ghosts

Chapter 6

Untitled

He stood in the rain, black suit saturated to an inky hue, never mind the umbrella he held in hand. Locks matching suit in consistency and hue, they straggled into his eyes and dripped into his hauntingly familiar basilisk eyes. Breaking the trend of universal black, (eyes, suit, and hair were a perfect match, rain notwithstanding) was a dull span of brown that caked the once glossy shoes and smudged up against the lowest seam of his pants. The wind rose up a notch, causing the contours of the man to shiver. It was more an indulgence than the man himself would allow. Lips a thin line, jaw set, he radiated irritation with this "mission" without indulging in the usual shows of weakness any other man might indulge

The latter, though viewed through a sheet of omnipresent rain it wasn't obscured in the slightest, was the side effect of "innocently leaked' information . There was indignation about the man. The unanswered, untenable insult all but made a miasma about that still form. And only orders (from who, who knew. Save she did, and she didn't want to know, thus she hung onto fond delusion a little longer) from "above" had coaxed this man into the wet.

Never mind the damage his finery (from another age, but still finely made and more importantly cherished) the shear indignity of having to cater to the "enemy" was all the insult ever needed.

The loss of the rest of it would just further piss him off.

Still, as the car screamed to a stop and she clambered out he offered his meager shelter of his umbrella, though a passing gust nearly wrenched it from his calloused hands.

And, more important (perhaps most important of all) he asked the right question first.

The only question.

"How's the child?"

To that she pulled Denzel out of the car, never caring that her back was to him. Inside the lights went dead, and Reno was twisted about, helping her push the blanket bound bundle out. Denzel had been shivering, despite the heat of the car, and the heater being set at its highest setting (she was red, dripping, though she hadn't stepped out into the wet, not yet) he whimpered from cold. Leaning close, but not touching either her or the child as the slipped closer to the threshold, he took everything in. And, because her back was turned, he allowed his dark eyes to widen for a moment as the child cried out in pain at the coming chill of the lukewarm storm. Lips all but a bloodless slash, he nodded to the confirmed, and was torn from his contemplation by another battle with the wind. At conflict's end he held the umbrella steady, even as Tifa and her burden stood under its stiff folds.

"Reno, take the car back toe TECH HQ, Ms. Lockheart, you're with me!"

There came a scramble, then at efforts end Reno was back in the driver’s seat, and the car roared to life. Lighting up and blazing over the lawn and finding a track of mud to call a path. Hardly caring about Reno, Tifa cradled Denzel's quivering form close, one step behind the drenched Turk, that took effort, for the man set a hellishly fast pace. Turk and rebel passed a threshold, a steel door that hissed open at Tseng's touch. DNA scanner, pressure pad, and a key card had been employed; one after the other, and Tifa shook her head, flabbergasted that such technology was… well available.

And, considering everything, it was chilling that someone thought that level of security was needed.

Then, they were in the dry, not dry themselves –all three dripped- but the contrast was enough to slow Denzel's quake and snap Tifa out of her daze. Shaking off the water from his umbrella, the Wutia Turk seemed unconcerned about the rush of white clad individuals that were approaching. From a world away, all unconcerned, he stomped his steel boots, as id dislodging the mud on his boots was the most important thing in the world. Even as the doctors gave both Tifa and Denzel a look over than "suggested" that a more checkup appropriate setting was needed. Both parent and child were lead deeper into the building, the Turk seemed more than content to be left behind.

Until the end, the very end, when the door was a step away and there was some dithering about the locks inside the building. In that natural pause he said his piece.

"When he's stable, Ms. Lockheart," came that hated voice, cold and distant. She could feel the fire in her memory against her skin, warming, never mind the cold. "We will talk."

There was no option. In truth, there never had been. Not since the beginning of it all. Of that, Tifa was sure. Locks surmounted with minimal grumbling, the door clicked open, amongst a sea of white and concerned faces she was carried forward.

"Ms. Lockheart?"

He was crazy, the rebel mulled, acting as if she'd ever had an option.

"Whatever." She had more important things to do than listen to this man who summoned all her ghosts without  even trying.


End file.
